


for all our sins (lost in stars)

by GreyFey



Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Bottom Jack, Character Study, F/M, Friendship, Hopeful Ending, Jack being Jack, Kissing, Pansexual Character, Post-Episode: s12e05 Fugitive of the Judoon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-30
Updated: 2020-01-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:49:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22478938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreyFey/pseuds/GreyFey
Summary: He sees her before she sees him. She is wreathed in gold and the dying burnish of ancient stars.
Relationships: Thirteenth Doctor & Yasmin Khan & Graham O'Brien & Ryan Sinclair, Thirteenth Doctor/Jack Harkness
Comments: 17
Kudos: 395





	for all our sins (lost in stars)

**Author's Note:**

> I felt robbed of a Doctor/Jack reunion scene last episode, so I had to go and write it

He sees her before she sees him. She is wreathed in gold and the dying burnish of ancient stars. He has walked in the mud of a thousand battlefields, has bathed in the ashes of galaxies long gone, in the time since their paths last crossed. His hands are stained with dead lovers' blood and the weary pull of too many punches, but –

She is here.

She is _here_.

His friend, who tore him to pieces and built him up anew. His love, who saw him dead on dirty floors at the edges of known space, and left him to rot in corpse dust at the first startled beat of his death-shuned heart.

"Doctor," he calls in a whisper, in a shout, bursting forth from somewhere deep in his chest, and the smile he pulls on his lips is an old, careless thing, like breathing life into a ghost.

She has changed, in the eons stretched between them. From man to woman, from old to older. It's a body he's never seen before, with light hair and liquid eyes, but there's something familiar in the sharp sweep of her cheekbones, in the expression scrunching up her face, in the weight behind it.

"Jack," she says, and grins, wide and warm and delighted, and _oh_ , how he's missed her.

She dances two steps towards him and he falls into her, yielding to the inevitable pull of her gravity, a baren piece of rock finding its orbit around the sun. He is laughing when she slams into him, all elbows and knees and soft new curves. She is smaller, leaner than he's ever known her, fitting neatly in his arms as he presses his face against the cool skin of her neck, but there's no mistaking the inhuman strength coiled in her muscles, the fierce, uncompromising grip she locks behind his back. She pulls him to her like she's expecting him to fold up against her shoulder, and so he does, swaying in like a newborn child. It hurts, a little, this generous touch, this long-awaited reunion. It's a relief beyond words.

There's a breathless laugh against his ear when she takes up his weight, the quiet thrum of twin hearts beating behind it. Distantly, Jack knows there's something desperate in the way they cling to each other, in the slight shakes that rock them both, in the tight clench of febrile fingers against rib-bones, digging into flesh hard enough to bruise.

_I've missed you,_ he says, ragged, with the press of feverish lips on the soft skin behind her ear.

_It's been so long, my friend,_ she says, with a hand raking through his hair, a harsh pull that makes gooseflesh rise.

He feels incandescent, about to self-combust, by the time she hums, deep in her throat, and shifts away a fraction. He traces the laugh-lines at the corners of her eyes, the wry pull of her full lips, and swears, for a moment, that the spin of the Earth beneath his feet becomes a tangible thing.

"Well, look at you," he says, a low, appreciative purr, because he can't help himself. Jack's always been admiring of all her bodies, and this one is no expection. She's as beautiful as her other selves ever were, and there's nothing surprising about the lazy stirring of attraction below his navel. "I can't say I don't like the changes, Doctor. You are _stunning."_

She snorts at him, loud and undignified. "Don't start," she warns him, but there's no bite behind the words, and Jack –

Jack can see big hands and a gruff smile in the roll of her eyes, a dusting of freckles and manic youth in the pitch of her tone. For a moment, he can't _breathe_ through the sudden burst of affection in his chest, all tangled love and longing like a star going nova, and he –

He places a gentle hand against the side of her face and leans in, slow and deliberate. She watches him with ancient eyes gone heavy with dark promises and countless secrets, watches him approach with quirked lips and a tilted head.

When he slants his mouth against hers, she rises up to meet him, firm and sure. There's something curious about the way she kisses him back, like she doesn't quite know what to expect. Maybe it's her first time kissing in this body, Jack thinks, and puts a little more pressure into it, dizzy with quiet wonder, with the supple give of her lips against his. Cool fingers brush against his jaw, his chin, hold him in place as the Doctor's tongue flicks against his mouth, a test and a question, a quiet greeting.

_Where were you? s_ he asks, and he opens his mouth, lets her in with a soft groan he's helpless to keep leached at the back of his throat.

_Looking for you,_ he answers, with frantic hands gripping her hips, the kiss turning from light-hearted to urgent, spit-slick with the easy slide of tongues, something dirty and open-mouthed that makes his nerves sizzle with the barest scrape of teeth.

It's going incredibly difficult to stop, Jack thinks dimly, the Doctor crowding up against him, soft curves in all the right places. He can feel himself falling, the ground opening beneath his feet, a gaping chasm like the blackness of deep space, and he's aware of the imensity of it all, the ridiculousness of dying worlds and slow-spinning galaxies and –

There's a cough, somewhere to his right, sharp and pointed. He wouldn't care, usually, has never had enough self-conciousness to balk at the thought of public sex, but the Doctor is huffing a laugh against his lips. She is pulling away with graceful ease, rocking back on her heels and out of his arms, leaving him no choice but to force a bracing breath down his lungs, to open his eyes.

Her new companions are gathered close, the three of them looking different shades of embarassed. It's the girl – Yasmin, he thinks – who grabs his attention first, old soldier's instincts rearing up at the sight of crossed arms and a swift glare. She meets his gaze with narrowed eyes, something shrewed lurking behind, something calculating, and there's no mistaking the protectiveness of her posture, the careful balancing of her weight, legs planted shoulders-wide.

She is so, so very young, Jack realises, and aches a little. He shoots her a wry, amused grin, from one idiot in love to another. His own heart is a gnarled, stubborn thing that doesn't have much space left for softness, but he finds himself utterly hapless in the face of the mangled nostagia and compassion that laces through his gut. She reminds him of Rose, or perhaps Martha, with her dark skin and determination, her fierce strength, something great enough to shoulder the whole world.

_You too, uh?_ he thinks at her, this girl barely out of childhood, and bites down a sympathetic wince.

"Hello again, kids," is what he says, if only to watch the pretty boy's lips twist into a scowl, the older man mutter a grumbled ' _kids?'_ under his breath.

"That's right," the Doctor says beside him, bright and bouncing, an admirable display of untamed youth. "Jack. You've already met the fam. Ryan, Graham. Yaz. Fam, this is Captain Jack Harkness. We go _way_ back."

Her smiles are too wide, her motions too grand. It's like watching a magician, Jack thinks. It's a desperate performance, a foolish trick, hiding the brittleness behind. He knows her too well not to see through the restless, reckless act. The Doctor is tired, with the kind of exhaustion that runs bone-deep, the kind that has nothing to do with a lack of sleep.

Something's gone terribly, horribly wrong, in the centuries since they last saw each other, he is sure of it. It shows through the cracks in the feverish mania in her eyes, flat and dark and lifeless.

She's talking, too fast and too light, about the world ending, about Jack not dying. The three humans listen with an air of quiet resignation. Jack snatches her wrist when it flies close to his face, closes gentle fingers around sharp bones and squeezes, just enough to be felt, just enough to ground down. He keeps his thoughts clear, keeps them calm, and hopes the Doctor is paying attention when he whispers,

_You are not alone,_ pulling the barriers around his mind low enough for a touch-telepath to slip through, humming a warm welcome.

The Doctor freezes in the middle of her speech, her red, kiss-swollen lips half-opened around an unfinished word. She swallows, glances at him, caught out and startled. He says it again.

_You are not alone, Doctor, friend, beloved. There are dark days ahead, but you will face them in good company. It'll be alright._

This time, when she smiles, it's like the sun coming over the horizon, warm and golden, sincere. Jack's breath catches in his throat, because he is old beyond reason but the years haven't made him wise. Unfurling safely behind his breastbone, with a slow growth that stretches from ribs to spine, is the touch what might be hope.


End file.
